bitter, this wind.

bitter is the wind
yet bright are my eyes--
unabashed, unhindered
by every cloud's disguised light.

bitter is the wind
yet fettered are my feet--
planted, bolstered
by the buried greens of heaven's last storm.

bitter, this wind
because it eats every fear
with no place to dispose its own fears:
seasonally quelled,
seasonally angered.

bitter is the wind.
i should give it something sweet.

Spring's Tomorrow.

Dear God,
   Tomorrow will come, won't it? It's not that I don't want it to come; there have been so many tomorrows that've passed I wonder that I still count it a miracle.
   You know, I have to tell you, prayer is generally a quiet habit, yes, but I can't that the Zumba/party music in the background is distracting--it's just work. Frankly, the music is repetitive enough that it dulls my senses enough to help continue my thoughts.
   Speaking of tomorrows, God, thank you for all my todays, and today, this day. I know that if I think about it long enough, todays and tomorrows they begin to blur together, but I know that every day really is different. I need only look back and see how much has changed.
   Like today! ...wait.
   Tomorrow is the first day of Spring. Finally! New Life, God! Oh, goodness! No snow until next November, at least! Thank you!
   I would be remiss if I did not also thank you for my jobs. My parents' jobs. My sister's job.
   Thank you for weekends off to visit friends, and cars to get there.
   ...I'm sure I'm the last person who should be saying this, but truly, some weeks are a lot harder than others. I know a few of my friends had a particularly hard week this time 'round. Thank you for being with them when I couldn't. Thank you for giving them friends and family (even the occasional stranger) to surround them; work and hobbies to distract or enlighten.
   I don't expect I'll ever understand why we must endure hard weeks, or months, or years...
   Anyway. (I feel like Percy Jackson praying to Poseidon. I don't know that talking to you will ever stop being weird, but I know I need to do it more often. So, as every Wednesday comes, and I have to post a prayer, help me understand the gravity of every request, and the easy love which you use to listen to me, and care for me.
   Good night, God.
   I'll see you later.
   ...when I say 'see'.

Time for a Change!

I've decided to do something.

Clearly, I don't write in here consistently. Nope. But I want to write here consistently...I just don't always know what to write, so I've decided something.

EVERY:
Monday- I'll post a quotation from a book (I'm probably currently reading)
Tuesday- I'll post a picture of a Zentangle I've drawn 
Wednesday- I'll post a prayer
Thursday- I'll post a poem
Friday- a little teaching wisdom (or experience, or mistake; etc.)
Saturday- Bible verses
Sunday- a hymn/worship song I sung at church

Why? Lately, I've been thinking a lot about silence because even though working two part time jobs enable me to have all the alone time, I have heard almost too much of silence, I don't know what to do with it anymore. It frightens me when it used to calm me. I've decided that this needs to change--I need to re-friend silence.

I also need to remember that just because I'm surrounded by noise doesn't mean I have to try to block it out. That's a lot of people and things I ignore- what if I ignore the ones who need me? The ones I need?

I don't post a lot of deep, profound posts that'll make you question your origins or foundation, or political stance. I don't post stuff that'll make you want to recycle all your toilet paper rolls into DIY wall decor. I don't post stuff that'll make you want to ditch your diet. But, I only know how to do the above.

I know it's not Saturday yet, but bear with me here:

Psalm 65.8b, "You make the going out of the morning and the evening shout for joy." 

Today was my first full day in a long time- a regular 9-5 day- I heard little silence, but when I saw the sunrise and sunset, while I didn't hear shouts of joy, I wanted to. In silence, or in sound, I want to hear joy, during the morning and evening, and all the betweens. I want to hear God. Hopefully, this weekly endeavor for my blog will help me hear better.

We'll see.

Expose vs. Educate

I am not a parent, and some professionals might not yet consider me a teacher, although my B.S. in Education might want to boast otherwise (you'll note the 'B.S.'). Anyway, anyway...




For doctors, the worst patients are doctors- the same can be said for teachers: for teachers, the worst parents are teachers. Since I am not either, and have not had the joy of hosting a parent/teacher meeting I have had it in my head that parents (employed as teachers, doctors, or rock stars) are a teacher's worst nightmare. This was never expressly said- generally, I assumed it common knowledge because, well, that was where most of the horror stories about school came from. The funny stories were about students.

But I have learned a new empathy this recent incident because, you see, I don't know how to deny the most curious of eyes who often mirror my own eyes.




My whole life, I have worked to build a filter between my mind and mouth- I think everyone should, and we'll collectively label it DISCERNMENT because knowledge is power, yes, yes, and more yes- of course it is, but 'power'? What kind of 'power' do we talk about when we say 'knowledge is power'?

The best teachers don't just divulge information--teachers aren't the main source of knowledge, hardly--but the best teachers direct where and how to find information- at least in my experience that's what the best teachers do (they also make me laugh, but that's not an academic requirement, not yet). If I want to be the best teacher for my students, and I have the earnest, sincere desire to direct my students; to guide them; to help them; etc., then I also have the responsibility, to a certain extent, 'to keep them safe'.

Now, experience is a good teacher, truly- some lessons can only be learned through experience, but that does not dictate all the other lessons that are better learnt secondhand whether by reading/research, lecture; interviews, but here I've found a thin line: to expose vs. to educate. When you look beyond the line into either side, the two are intertwined, but they are still two different things, otherwise they wouldn't be intertwined, but one blended mush.

I am all about teaching every child about sympathy/empathy, charity/friendship, tolerance, beauty, science/experimentation, culture, materials; etc., but never at the cost of what little innocence every child has. (Perhaps 'innocence' isn't the right word, but 'ignorance' implies too much willfulness.) It may not be the best time to teach kindergartners and first graders about the Holocaust in a casual, after school setting when I have limited time and no prior planning...unfortunately, I needed to experience that lesson.

It may not be the best to put let little Susie prepare dinner all by her little self when she has yet learned how to turn the knobs on the stove.

Each in his or her own time, and frankly, I will not always have the opportunity to decide when the student's 'time' has come to finally know about -inserttopicofinteresthere-. I can speak with utmost clarity and there is still a chance someone misheard me- that is not good enough reason to stop teaching/exposing/educating, but it is good enough reason to examine the individual needs of every student. If so-and-so misunderstood, what can I do to help so-and-so understand? 

Knowledge is totally power. All over that, but wisdom is unparalleled- I need more caregivers than dictators.




So, what new empathy did I breach? This student is someone's child. In my situation, I only have that child for a two to three hours. I don't have to reap the immediate effects of what I've taught, but his or her parents do. Sometimes, I have to unlearn things- that's harder than having to learn something in the first place. When a student is going to hear about the tragedies of this world I hope he or she never learns of its beauties.

• If I had a kid and were somehow able to a fly on the wall in my own classroom, would I be pleased with my own conduct as a teacher? 
• Would I want that particular sort of information expressed in that way? 
• Did I need to be sarcastic there? 
• Should I have worded the question differently? 

These questions don't really have an answer because every situation is different, but never will discernment go out of style.

You'll always need to put broken bones in a cast (unless you have Madame Pomfrey on speed dial), but students aren't bones, and if they break I despise he who says there's only one solution.

Spicy Lives

Generally, when I hear people talk 'variety' they're not very far from adding, "is the spice of life!" Indeed, it is, but just how many spices are there?

To my discredit, I just began dabbling in the arts of the kitchen, not always very well, but I have made a few tasty things, I think, although, note to self: never make family pumpkin-flavored things because they do not like pumpkin.

It's just that lately life keeps surprising me with its variety.

The other day I asked one of my students if she remembered my name, and she answered, "Of course not!" as if I needed a more definite way of saying 'no'. Then this weather- could the clouds dump any more on my icebox-where-my-heart-used-to-be-oh-OH! And this is the variety in my life, not even the variety of the lives I am privileged to interact with and I have been trying to be a part of a few more lives than I'm used to.

This isn't going to be about a post about how to get more empathy, or how to stop being boring, or five easy steps to do something in a more awesome way. No, right now, all I'm talking about is the very beginning: notice, watch, observe because that's all it takes to see variety. Even in 'cookie cutter' homes, like townhouses, maybe right down your street, have you ever really looked in those homes? Now, don't, like, you know, creep on the families, but think of it this way: it's hard to tell apart one bear from another, but it's pretty easy to tell apart one person from another, even with twins, Doppelgangers, and wannabes, everyone is different. And all those differences live in, generally, the same communities, or at least on the same planet.

Life is infinitely stranger than anything which the mind of man could invent. We would not dare to conceive the things which are really merely commonplaces of existence. If we could fly out of that window hand in hand, hover over this great city, gently remove the roofs and peep in at the queer things which are going on, the strange coincidences, the planning, the cross-purposes, the wonderful chain of events, working through generations and leading to the most outer results, it would make fiction with its conventionalities and foreseen conclusions most stale and unprofitable. -Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's Sherlock Holmes: A Case of Identity

How many spices are there? I don't know, but let me tell you, apparently salt is not one of them and if salt is not one of them, goodGod, I haven't even grazed the surface of the variety of Life- these lives I am privileged to interact with.

I can't wait to dig deeper.

See, snow days can be good for something.

republished.

'talk less; listen more' -FB note (31 July 2012)

distracted by my dignity

there's nothing left but misery.

so swollen with my pride

now i've nowhere left to hide.

i am terribly frightened

although i've been slightly enlightened;

not breaking barriers

and certainly not creating warriors.

just getting warier.

i'm afraid my innocence is indecent,

playing too close to ignorance

blissfully choosing mediocrity,

adding doses to my hypocrisy,

pretending to understand

making everyone believe i can.

so now i'm lying through my teeth

and feel so sorrowfully beaten.

but any pity you think you owe me

reserve for the ones who beg for it.

because now i am overstepping my limited limits

and proceeding without delay into the great, wide world--

not to correct it,

nor to restore it,

and hardly to be it,

but to watch it, learn from it and, most certainly, enjoy it

but enjoying does not mean deploying my morality.

for instead of protection inside a bubble i'll wear Otherworldly steel

to combat everything that claims to be real.

this is more than a feeling,

more than a thought.

it's the possession of a hoe: watch me as i till the earth!

feeling!

tilling!

feeling!

tilling!

i am tilling with feeling!

i am hearing with beating!

i am watching and coming!

i am learning and teaching!

i am caring and nursing!

feeling!

tilling! tilling! tilling!

i am enjoying and discerning.

planting and watering,

but not always tilling, tilling, tilling!

because this world also requires harvesting and tending!

so no distraction ought to ever sanction

my dignity's overarching plea.

my Otherworldly armor will never fail me--

for it is not just my protection 

it also serves as a weapon

against the joys that i might worship

the treasures i might covet

and the people i might murder.

feeling!

tilling!

harvesting!

tending!

O, i am being! 

i am called onward!

now i must move

away from my depression!

away from my conceit!

away from the bacteria that insists upon obscuring everything that's created me:

the Bad and the Good,

for sometimes the Bad becomes Good 

and the Good becomes Bad.

never a matter of balance--

always a matter of discernment

which leads to

dignity as a distraction, misery and pride,

of course i've no where left to hide!

because learning always requires reviews:

i pardon the lesson learned fifty times;

i do not pardon the lesson never learned.

so with steel as armor and hoe;

so with seeds as lessons and dirt as the road

thus begins the journey into Eternity.

birds and paper planes

for emily

----

there are faces i see that i truly admire.
the mouth, the eyes,
but what is behind them?
i'm not sure i know what's behind my own.
oh, i feel as though i'm soaring-
i'm riding the wind.
but as a bird
or a paper plane?
birds can die.
they eat worms,
build nests- they live outdoors;
some shriek more than sing.
paper planes can't die,
which means
they can't
live.

birds and paper planes.
which one sees the faces that i truly admire?
the mouth, the eyes?
which one sees behind them?
now i see behind my own
and no longer see flight,
but only a flimsy sheet of directionless chance-
living, but refusing life.

i have loved your face,
but i have not loved you.

paper planes cannot love.
birds might feel pity.
paper planes cannot live.
birds might feel pity.

birds might feel.

i have seen my face-
i sometimes like it.
i do not pretend to wear or read it well,
but
my mouth, my eyes
are not yours for the taking.

now
i soar.